


Folk Lore

by HeviMetal



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Eventual Smut, F/M, Horror, Psychological Trauma, Smut, Tenderness, Violence, fairytale AU, folklore AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-29
Updated: 2016-10-29
Packaged: 2018-08-27 16:17:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8408338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HeviMetal/pseuds/HeviMetal
Summary: Where there is man, there is always legend. Some are used to tell of great stories about good triumphing over evil, of lessons to be learned towards the youth, or maybe even a silly love story. But what they all have in common are the simple truths hidden in them. Sansa loves stories, always has as a child and found comfort in them. But what if these stories began to grow real? What if she were to experience one? This is a fairy tale AU where Sansa is a troubled beauty and falls victim to a clever beast.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Trying something a little different. Don't worry I haven't forgotten my other stories, but I have to get this one out. It will be a lot more faster in pace, but I hope to really give the impression and lore of this folk tale setting. And as always, critiques are welcomed. Enjoy! 
> 
> (P.S. So far my music inspiration has been some good ol'classic rock. And I mean ZZ Top, CCR, Journey, David Bowie and more. I can post some songs later if y'all would like.)

 

* * *

 

**T** here was hardly any doubt in Sansa Stark's mind she was being followed.

 

**S** he was an easy target, now more than ever. She was alone and to be so in such late hours in the wood when the moon's pale rays could hardly penetrate through thick branches suggested nothing good could happen. New fallen snow erected barricades and gave an illusion of even terrain forcing rushed curses, but damn it wasn't as cruel as the wind.

 

**A** wolf's sorrowful cry ripped through the night's silence, uncomfortable, hideous, and with a laborious heave, Sansa urged her legs to move faster. Evidently the main road wasn't a route worth traveling, for too many dangerous highway men and bandits lined themselves along the way to civilization. No, that's too much exposure, and from what she needed, discrepancy would do. For although this path is tumultuous and dangerous, it was masked with snow—she'd be hidden from her pursuer.

 

**I** n spite of the frigid air, perspiration fell around her forehead. Time seemed sluggish in uncertainty and she doubted her heart knew the meaning of lucidity as her mind wasn't. She had a million things going in inside, but none so loud as her mother's voice ringing with counsel. Her lungs filled with bitterness and ached as she crested a troublesome peak, which was more like a shallow hill, and scanned the darkened land. Snow was everywhere swept down into tiny valleys between creaking giants all the way to an ancient landscape.

 

> _Go down Sansa... find sanctuary..._

 

**W** ith a lift of her skirt, she pushed herself to wade through. The snow was more dense, thicker than any wool blanket she's ever had. Without warning, she slipped, tumbled a great length, and catapulted herself from the cover of shadows and heaven trees and skidded sending a cloud of snow all over a stone flat surface. Plumes of breath mushroomed around her face as she tried to regain something of herself and looked to where she plummeted surprised by her survival. With strength afforded by shock, Sansa stood listening to the gasps of her voice against eerie silence. She whipped her head around, searching for a pass to break free and squeeze into a pillar crag. But instead of locating an exit, she faced a man.

 

> “Come here girl.”

 

**P** ulse racing, Sansa stretched her fingers for balance and tried to step back, desperate for escape. Every sordid warning that had been preached from not only her mother, but everyone in Winterfell flashed before her in vivid detail as they all led to the same thing: _never enter the wood._

 

> “Come here I said!”

 

**S** ansa managed a tip toe step back. A beastly growl challenged her—too late to comprehend she is surrounded.

 

**I** f she was a praying nun, now would be the time to genuflect and beseech God. But she wasn't employed by one God as her cultures are that of the old ones. She was beyond saving in this newer world.

 

> “I have no money if that's what you want from me” Sansa forced her voice a whisper as she trembled.

 

> “It's not your money I've come for. It's you.”

 

**S** now stung Sansa's eyes.

 

**T** he moon's light never fell on the man's face as he walked closer and closer to where she wobbled. The pounding in her head intensified and she could barely hear the sick excitement of the stranger's breathing.

 

> “I need to remind you that the Lord won't take kindly to heathens. Not your money or your sacrifices will be acknowledged in his eyes for he judges you and your heretic ways. And it's my job to make sure monsters like you are in hell where you belong.”

 

**T** he man was too fast and grabbed Sansa's sleeve, ripping a few hems free, and tore the thin material from the safety of her arm. Without glancing down at the rag in his hands, he tossed the clothe into the wind. Sansa's attacker leaned in close, his breath reeked of ale. If it had been an old man sick and frail—she could hold her own in a brawl, shove the man down and run, maybe scream for someone to hear. But with his healthy attitude, experience affirmed she'd stand little chance.

**T** aking a horse could have been wise, perhaps she would have gotten somewhere, but how far would she get? To force a beast whom knows nothing but the commands of it's master left guilt in her gut should something bad happen to the poor beast. Sansa was far from being a killer—an animal one particularly. She found a fondness for such sweet innocent things, and perhaps due to her lineage she felt a special attachment to them.

 

> “Come out at night to dance naked for the devil did you? You pagan woman!”

 

**S** ansa pressed her lips together and looked skyward with a sense tonight she would meet her maker.

 

**C** hest heaving, she forced herself to breathe as she knew nothing kind of this ugly world and made herself prey to doubt.

 

> “Consider this salvation!”

 

**W** ithout another word, the man's balled fist slammed into Sansa's gut, stealing the wind from her lungs and crumbing her weakened legs to the ground. With no help from icy stone, pain jolted throughout her body feeling a pulsing bruise spread from her knees. Before she could regain any balance, the man struck her face next –she fell and struck stone. Sansa had collapsed, her cheek in the snow. She did not move—could not move even if she so desired. The man's breath came in jagged gasps and stabbed fear along her curling spine as he spat ugly things against her likeness.

 

> _You're alive. Get up and fight._

 

**A** sharp kick thrust stars tunneling her vision as she cried in agony. The man's voice was muffled and Sansa could no longer decipher words. She laid still on the icy ground and groaned. The ground beneath her became an anchor as she hoped to rise up and make her life more meaningful at it's end than this man's behavior as he is impossible to ignore.

 

**T** hen all was still, quiet, save for the whistling wind through barren branches. Sansa was sure this meant she was only a second from gripping death's hand. The voices in her head taunting cruelly for her to survive against odds. She made several attempts to listen for her attacker, to hear what else he had to say, do or breathe malice—yet there was nothing.

 

**F** resh snow had begun to fall and she pondered how long it had done so as it accumulated on her shoulders and head—or so it felt. Her worries are scattered as she fears and hopes maybe she lost consciousness and it was enough to convince the man she is dead--left to feed the wolves, ravens or other carnivorous things of the like. So she waited...and listened for any indication that the man had abandoned her. She heard nothing, save for the mournful calls of an owl in the distant.

 

**N** othing.

 

**S** he didn't need any further proof. Granted her head throbbed, ribs ached, she made herself stand wincing simply at the pain of breathing. She scanned her surroundings, disoriented, yet more attentive in her near death experience. The stones and pillars are still there. Every tree, every shadow, she knew exactly where she was as it is clear she hadn't moved. But in her confusion she wasn't so sure. Sansa didn't want to stay here any longer, to take the chance that man might return and quickly turned never noticing the black outline until it was too late.

 

**S** ansa screamed but no one would hear her voice. His black hand covered her mouth while tears burned in her eyes. Panic seized her and she wanted to run, but the man in black wouldn't have it and instead leaned against her ear and whispered: _wake up._

 

**R** elief came in the cognizance of her room, excited voices of people from outside her window, and clarity it was all a dream. Slowly she stepped out of her bed. Sansa assessed her condition, limb by limb. Nothing appeared to be broken, no blood or bruising on her knees and face. It felt so real she thinks shivering over the authenticity of her dream.

 

**L** ooking out the icy window, voices outside increase. It must be terribly wonderful in the appearance of a traveling troupe, or disturbing to cause what sounds like the whole town to meet. She decided she would investigate, celebrate her life and join the rest in something more than a night slip.

 

**S** ansa clutched her fur lined shawl tightly around her shoulders. Winterfell was becoming cold, yet not the frigidness promised during harsh winter days. Much like anyone else living here, the cold is far from disrespected as it is welcomed. In fact winter is the season they anticipate the most because unlike the rest of the world, they were made for it.

 

**O** r so it's believed.

 

**H** owever there is no contest in her denial towards the warmth her shawl gave for at least she had that. The man dead in the mud is the real testament of stone cold.

 

> “Is he---”

 

> “Look away child!” an old hag hissed

 

**S** he heard the hag speak, but eyes couldn't look away. This was the fifth one. In one month, the fish monger who used to tell her stories about exotic black pearls was found face down in his tiny boat floating near the docks. Everyone at first thought it was his drunken foolishness which lead to his death, yet they all began to think otherwise after the second and third. The fourth too was found face down, and unlike the rest, he hung from a tree. Suicide is what they all spoke and preached, a story to suggest illness of the brain for that's what working in a cave does to one's mentality. But they all knew the truth—there is no denial—this was all murder.

 

> “ Is he dead?” Sansa finally whispered among the slowly growing crowd.

 

> “No, not dead.” the hag's repulsive stench reached her nose “undead.”

 

> “Who is he?”

**W** ith a trembling hand, Sansa reached out to touch something of the man, hesitant, as if he would spring to life at any second and make a fool of everyone. But her shivering fingers landed in the grasp of hideous talons nearly choking her wrists.

 

> “What if...it's the priest? He's been missing for over a week” she did not so much as wince.
> 
>  

> “Tis no holy man here. Do you not see child? There is a husk, a devil, and ye do best to heed my warning.”

**T** hat was the last thing she expected to hear. The old woman is mad, it's common knowledge, but it seemed to get worse with her random bursts of omens and curses, monsters and creatures, pointing fingers at any and all who ignored her religion in favor of Christianity. Since the town welcomed the neighboring priest, father David, her attitude changed for the worse. Sansa speculated maybe it was because she wanted more attention, but the maliciousness behind her actions couldn't be excused. In fact, just the other day, Jenny's son admitted to seeing her catching bats and cutting off their heads. It was a cruel joke. It's true the old woman had something different about her, but it wasn't justification enough to ostracize and ridicule. She felt for the poor woman. She has no one in this world whom would call her friend or say something nice and it simply isn't fair. Sansa doubted she could come up with a proper excuse to protect the old woman and now was not helping. Fear told her one day, or sooner, the hag would be next found in some ditch.

**T** hen it hit her.

 

**S** hocked, Sansa lifted her free hand to her mouth and leaned into it hushing a sob.

 

**F** ather David's head rested against the dirt. A deep gash somewhere on him to well blood so fresh it could have only happened last night.

 

> “Where did you find him?” said Sansa quietly.

 

> “Here child.” the hag eyed her “do you know something of it?”

 

**I** nstantly Sansa shook her heard. She gave the old hag's shoulder a gentle push, hoping she would release her. A sharp gust of wind curled through the audience, slamming open doors, windows, and any matter of loose things hanging around chiming their whispers. Sansa wanted to escape. In fact, she made it possibly so, stealing in the distraction of nature to return to sanity for madness is what she felt.

 

**I** t was only a dream wasn't it?

 

**S** ansa did not wait for the hag's response. She pulled her wrist free casting an anxious glance around her shoulders. The last thing she needed was for impressionable eyes to see her inner hysteria. There are enough people within town in alliance to the new King and would be ecstatic for a pyre burning as they inherited the new religion.

 

**S** he tightened her shawl around her leaving everyone to carry on their visitations with the dead priest and scurried from the crowd and took the path to the stables. Sansa burst through the doors. Erik, the lazy stableboy, looked up frightened, his face flushed caught in the action of dozing off on his hay cot. She glanced at the hay in his messy hair and his uneaten loaf of bread and went to the tack room where her father's leather satchel hung most often used in his travels. Reaching up with her hands, she plucked the sturdy bag from a hook and tucked it beneath her arms.

 

**S** ansa bit her lip as she searched for an able and readied horse, stealing the boy's bread without asking if he would finish. She struggled to stuff it in the bag for her book left from the other day took up most of the space as it is as large as an almanac. She hesitated. It was impressive there hadn't been a complaint aware of the theft she committed, and Erik, strong as he was, would never be able to catch her if she took off with a horse. Grabbing a fistful of mane from the paint nearby, her pulse still raced from the morning's disruption, giving her enough validation to mount and flee.

 

> “That's the lord's horse!”

 

> “I'm borrowing her for a little”
> 
>  

> “No you can't!” Erik's barely pubescent voice broke “ What do I say to your father if he asks? He'll kill me if his favourite horse isn't here! Probably think I allowed them to be stolen of accuse me of sleeping when they got loose!”

 

> “But weren't you?” Sansa challenged climbing onto the horses back

 

> “Yes but--”

 

**S** he never got to hear his excuse, nor did she really care to because she was already gone and heading for the fields. Sansa needed peace. She needed her friendly little animal friends and a fantasy book to get lost in. Something to distract her from the coincidences of life.

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
